Unwinding
by CopperPrincess
Summary: Clint and Natasha unwind after another dangerous mission together. Very fluffy. Not overly adult but rated anyway.


Clint dropped heavily onto the king size bed that dominated his and Natasha's room. He fumbled at the black bowtie around his neck and slipped it off, snapping the silk material and chucking it in the general direction of the closet they also shared. The offending garment now far away from him, he sighed and rubbed the back of his neck wearily.

Another night, another mission accomplished, another drug kingpin/corrupt politician/unethical businessman taken out. Clint glanced over at the vanity that Natasha loved, which he had built for her. She was sitting on the padded bench, her head in her hands, elbows propped on the vanity counter. Surrounded by all her various pieces of jewelry, bottles of perfume and tubs of makeup, sitting just so, she looked smaller than usual, deflated, Clint thought. Small wonder, too. At least once a week they had one of these missions. Natasha would seduce the high-powered bad guy and ambush him in the private bedroom he took her to, while Clint backed her up and ran surveillance.

He had asked Natasha, a long time ago, if she hated herself for her job. She had said no, but looking at her now, Clint couldn't help but feel guilty for bringing her into his world and forcing her into this job. He knew it had to eat away at her soul to use her feminine wiles, charm, and body to get what she wanted out of sleazy men. He had given her the choice – die, or join him at SHIELD. Natasha had a fiery spirit that refused to allow her to back down from anything or anyone, and so she had followed him to SHIELD, to live and fight another day. Now, she looked like she had that night he'd caught her – defeated, but resilient.

Natasha had already slipped her dangerously high heels off her feet, which were crossed beneath the bench. As Clint watched, Natasha began to rub away what he referred to as her "war paint" – the makeup she wore only for their missions, the overdone look that their targets unerringly seemed to prefer: bold red lips, thick black eyeliner, long, seductive lashes, and her trademark porcelain skin highlighted and accentuated to something beyond perfection. She carefully took one of the makeup remover pads and started to gently wipe off the thick coating of makeup that she had caked on earlier that evening. That done, she sat for a moment, just staring at her own face in the mirror, as if to remember what she really looked like. As if she needed to remind herself that the makeup she'd just wiped off was indeed a mask, and nothing more. She explained to him, once, that the makeup was like a barrier between herself and her targets. They didn't really see her; they didn't really know her; and so they were not important and were therefore easy to take out. It helped her build her alluring persona, although in Clint's opinion, her allure could never fully be repressed – it ensnared him and pulled him to her like two stars spinning around each other, caught in the other's gravitational pull.

Clint walked into the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. When he emerged from the bathroom, he drew up short. Natasha was standing next to the padded vanity bench, one foot on the seat, the skirt of her nightgown hiked up over her thigh, and she was slowly, carefully, removing her stockings. She had her fingers hooked in the top of the garment and was easing it down her thigh and achingly slowly down her toned calf. Clint stood perfectly still and watched, hardly daring to breathe, not wanting to disturb this incredibly sensual moment. Natasha eased her foot out of the stocking and switched feet, repeating the same process on the other leg. The tights off, she flung them at the closet in an unconscious imitation of Clint's tie-throwing. She sat down at the vanity and caught Clint's eye in the mirror. She let her eyelids flutter shut, then tucked her chin to her chest, a silent request that only he understood. He stepped up behind her and placed his hands on her bare shoulders. She must have put the nightgown on when he was in the bathroom.

He began to rub her tense neck muscles slowly, allowing the tension in her shoulders to melt and the tension of the moment to build. He eased his hands up to her temples, massaged there gently, and then began to rake his fingers through her red hair, stopping to remove pins as he came across them. This was his favorite part of evenings like this. Natasha trusted him, and allowed him to see her at her most vulnerable – tired, sore, and asking for help with so simple a task as undoing her hair. He understood what it was she was giving him in these moments and cherished them, and her, all the more for it. And so he stood on his pained, weary feet behind her and finger-combed her beautiful red hair. He thought about how Natasha's hair was so _her_ – fiery, spirited, bold, and practically untamable. He continued to drag his fingers through her hair for long minutes after finding the last pin, just reveling in the feel of her silky hair, Natasha's pride since childhood in the Red Room.

Natasha let out a long, bone-weary sigh, and turned on the bench so she was facing Clint. She tilted her face up so she could see him from her much lower vantage point. She studied his features carefully, checking for signs of too much wear. She knew how much it killed him to send her into the lion's den over and over again. She knew he felt like it was his fault that she used her body as a sexy weapon to get what she needed from their marks. And she knew that she did it, over and over again, and would continue to do it, if it meant staying with him for just that much longer. She blinked slowly up at him. She grabbed his hands, so near to her, and pulled herself up, inching her hands up his muscular arms, strong from practice with his bow and not just for vanity's sake, to his broad shoulders. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pushing up on bare tiptoes to do so.

"I love you," Natasha whispered in his ear.

Clint shuddered in the circle of her arms and squeezed his eyes shut tightly, unsure how much perfection he could take at once. He leaned into Natasha, nuzzling her neck and just feeling her safe and secure in his arms. Another one down. Another mission complete. Another bad guy off the streets. And with the woman of his dreams there, with him, sharing the danger and love and sacrifice, he could do this. For Natasha, he could keep doing this. For them, he would keep doing this – even if it killed him. Because Natasha deserved perfection, and he could only hope to make a dent in their imperfect world of lies, deceit, subtlety, and espionage.


End file.
